


i could not ask (and neither could you)

by blackice



Series: Cleansing the Commonwealth [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Unrequited Love, not a good fic for bos-lovers, she attempts to justify racist views, the one where nora is pro-brotherhood of steel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackice/pseuds/blackice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellie’s hand pats his shoulder, feather-light and heavy with concern. “Or addictol,” she prescribes with all of her pragmatic wisdom, and she laughs at his bristling. “I know the symptoms of a withdrawal, Nick. Goodneighbor native, remember?”</p>
<p>Nick bats her hand away. “I’m a synth, Ellie,” he snips. “I’m all plastic and metal. I don’t get addicted.” Raising a lit cigarette in the air, Nick raises an eyebrow. “Case in point, this here is beginning of pack two.”</p>
<p>She shrugs away his wit. “All the same, you’ve been a little lost without Nora.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i could not ask (and neither could you)

[0]

Things Nick Valentine expects in life:

  1. Grunt work  
2\. Detective work



Things Nick Valentine does not account for:

  1. Playing damsel in distress  
2\. Having a knight in shining armor (more or less) save his ass



[1]

“Yeah,” Nick says, ever grateful for his ability to keep an even tone. “I saw him scratch your name off. Three black lines.” Bluffing backed up with a good bit of fact is a deadly combination, especially when Nick Valentine can put both together into a deadly weapon and point it at a thug’s sense of self-preservation. Gullible thug flinches away from the viewing glass and makes to scram, panic blossoming on his face—

_Bang_! The sudden spray of blood and viscera should make him blink, but too much time in the Commonwealth (and presumably, too much time as a cop?) has desensitized Nick. Justification for his inhumanity? Maybe, but Nick hadn’t been too fond of the thug anyway.

A face comes up to the window, youthful and curious. Older than Ellie, but looking as if she belonged in a pre-war mag about happy families.

Nick doesn’t blame her for being shocked at his appearance. It’s milder than Diamond City’s reaction, combined, upon his first steps into the old stadium. And—here’s the bonus—the woman gets over the sight of him damn fast.

Life’s pretty great when (objectively) pretty knights in shining armor save old battered synths. Also when said knight can verbally turn the volatility of a situation on its heel.

Of course, life is business for Nick.

Once they’ve escaped the vault, the woman abruptly spins to face him and says, “When can we get started on finding my son?”

“When I get back to my creature comforts,” responds Nick drily, refraining from shrugging his shoulders at the disbelief in her eyes. “We _could_ go gallivanting about the Commonwealth right now on a two-man manhunt, but I feel like you need a moment to sit, think, and then tell me what you remember of his kidnapping. Even the nasty bits.” He’s reaching for a cigarette until he remembers two things.

One, a synth smoking renders smoking redundant.

Two, his lighter’s gone. _Damn it_.

Gingerly, he curls his hands into fists instead, hiding them in his pockets. “I can sort of relate to your current experience,” Nick admits. “Now, Diamond City’s not too far off from here. If you’ve any business that needs taking care of, I promise not to be kidnapped again while I walk home.”

Either she doesn’t trust his capability to keep himself safe, or she doesn’t believe he’s actually making his way back to Diamond City, because the woman’s striking a quick pace back to the converted baseball stadium, blowing past him like a tightly-contained tornado. Turning around with her hands on her hips, the woman glares and raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘well?’

Nick holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender and follows her winding path home. The silence is tangible, but not uncomfortable. Like the commiserating silence of two friends who can survive without quips or philosophical debates.

He hasn’t had a lot of those friends. (But, well, she’s _not_ a friend—she’s a client.)

[1.5]

It shouldn’t be so funny, forgetting to ask her name.

[1.75]

It’s Nora.

[2]

Before Nick volunteers himself to conduct a dead man’s thoughts and memories, he and Nora spend more than two weeks chasing Kellogg’s trail. Their tardiness can only be attributed to trying to legally obtain the house key from a recalcitrant mayor and his tight-lipped secretary.

Nick still has no idea how she managed to finagle it from them. After a fruitless hour of going through his stash of bobby pins, Nora had ushered him into his office and assured him the key would be theirs in a week.

… He _guesses_ she could’ve stolen it. Nora’s got the delicacy for cat burglary.

As he turns to tell her this, because they’ve reached a steady rapport of nitpicky jokes after two plus weeks of stepping on each other’s heels, Nick’s voice fails him. They are still inside the Memory Den, silently picking their way out over fallen cigarette stubs and in-between those who are lost in their memories, and Nora’s walking ahead of him, her hand held tense over her gun holster.

She’s wary of him—of _Nick_ —because he couldn’t help lapsing into Kellogg’s voice and thoughts and cruel mannerisms for a minute in conversation. A damn mnemonic impression (still organic, which gives Kellogg a brutal one-up over him) manages to overpower synthetic wirings for one instant, and as melodramatic as Nick hates to be, now all is lost.

How does he tell her he is physically incapable of harming her? In this aspect, Nick suspects appearance is everything. He makes an imposing six feet tall figure, his eyes are the eerie shade of yellow one expects on a feral feline, and his right hand is more skeleton than his left. There is literally nothing comforting about him.

When they are outside of the Den, Nick impulsively catches her on the trenchcoat’s sleeve; he’s careful to keep from snagging the worn-out fabric. It’s been repaired enough by his hands, and he knows the coat catches on anything sharp and pointy.

Nora spins around to jerk her coat from his grasp, one hand just grazing the hilt of her 10mm, dark eyes narrowing further into an instinctive glare. Then she relaxes. “Oh. Nick. What’d you need?”

“You know I wouldn’t hurt you, right?” he checks. Nick stows away the outstretched hand in his pocket. Ah, crap, it was the metal one. No wonder she jumped.

The slight upwards tilt to her mouth could coax the sun to peer out behind the clouds. “Yeah,” she affirms, almost bemused. “You’re a bit like Preston, to be honest. I don’t think either of you could willingly raise a hand against anyone that didn’t deserve it. … Not even a bloatfly if it was at a fair distance.”

In a reflexive response, Nick looks away and scowls. “I’m being serious.”

“When are you not?” jokes Nora. A tentative shoulder pat rouses him from his inner turmoil. “If—if this is about the thing that happened back there, I…” she hesitates, and Nick badly needs her to finish the sentence. _I what_ , _Nora?_

He spies a heavily intoxicated ghoul stagger his way into an alley with another ghoul and opts for discretion by turning his eyes back to a point beyond Nora’s shoulders. “It won’t happen again,” he says in the silence. After a brief second, Nick makes eye-contact. “It won’t.”

[2.5]

She’s sticking to him like a particularly frustrating burr. Against his weak protests, Nora drags him around the Commonwealth, from her distant home in Sanctuary Hills to—horrifyingly enough—an island located a mile offshore.

The island was less of a tropical paradise after a mirelurk queen burst from the ocean. Then again, Nick should’ve expected something truly awful to happen when he noticed her lugging around a Fat Man and (he counted) ten mini-nukes.

On the brighter side, when Nick is not soaked in sea water or blood from a varying number of Commonwealth fauna and humans who chose a bad lifestyle, he has learned an extensive amount of knowledge about Nora and himself.

Nora collects junk from the old days; antiques Nick swears have no actual use until Nora smirks and efficiently dissembles a telephone for plastic and circuitry. She picks up flip lighters and cartons of cigarettes for him, even though Nick complains about his pockets being packed full of extremely flammable material.

Nick grows maudlin in the late hours when he’s on watch and the sun has yet to rise, pensively chain-smoking without reprieve. Sometimes he is buried deep in memories so thin, all he can recall are faded images and the faint sensations belonging to a human body.

Nora has a history of knowing how to distract people from bad habits; when Nick is absently reaching for a new pack of cigarettes and she should be sleeping in preparation for tomorrow’s tasks, she makes a lazy grab for his attention and tells him stories instead. Some are plagiarized directly from Agatha Christie’s novels but with inexplicably happy endings, yet Nick is entertained nonetheless.

Nick opens his pockets to store extra toy cars and military-grade circuit boards, extra bullets for her scavenged pipe guns and her prized sniper rifle, and even patiently lugs around a Jangles the Moon Monkey for the sake of her expression crumbling into unrestrained hilarity. From the thin memories rattling around in his coding, Nick spins stories about a different Nick, cop-Nick who never managed to escape the awkward watercooler talks and never failed to pull a solution out of his ass when the time demanded it.

And every two weeks, like clockwork, Nora and Nick return to Diamond City, say hello to an increasingly independent Ellie, pick up several cases filed at the agency, and skip back out again to solve them and (in Nora’s wry words) raise hell.

Predictably, it is when Nick is having the time of his life when cop-Nick decides to redirect his attentions on revenging Jenny.

[2.75]

Before their two-week drop-in at Diamond City, Nick persuades Nora to take a brief detour to Goodneighbor, where he’s heard MacCready needs some employment before being riddled to bullets by the Gunners.

MacCready gives Nick the weirdest look before haggling with Nora, who’s haggled successfully with Mama Murphy about quitting drugs (a truly bizarre verbal exchange Nick was glad not to be involved in), over the price of his employment.

“You can sell the Fat Man, Nora,” says Nick idly. “Don’t see why you lug around the big bastard anyway.”

Nora makes a face at him and pays MacCready the asking price of two-fifty caps. “Well, I’d love to have a massive amount of testosterone by my side in the Commonwealth, but you look like you need a recharge, Nick.” She’s somehow read his mind. How does she _do_ that? “If you need me, either go by Sanctuary or the Castle, I’m always on the frequency.”

“Just drop by every two weeks, make sure I haven’t drained my batteries,” he drawls in reply. Nick, in spite of knowing MacCready’s reputation as an honorable mercenary, has an internal struggle about leaving the premises.

Still, the pull of Jenny’s ghost and Eddie Winter’s tapes combined are strong.

And Nick thinks MacCready knows not to harm Nora, less the boy desires to have at once an ex-cop/current detective/extremely motivated good friend at his tail for the rest of his life.

[2.95]

He listens to his one single holotape of Winter’s over and over, and he combs through all his notes. At least a quarter of them are little more than frantically scribbled phrases, the remnants of his ‘eureka!’ moments. More of them are simply clinical guesses, old hide-outs, dead associates of Winter. Nick has a map of the Commonwealth in front of him, crudely drawn and marked with ‘P’s to denote police stations and ‘W’s as a random guess as to Winter’s location.

Ellie, after the first week of him back in the agency, threatens to stage an intervention.

“Give me another week before that,” he advises, and he plays the holotape over again.

[3]

“Oh, thank god you’re here,” sighs Ellie at the door. Nick barely registers the sounds, staring sightlessly at his holotape and trying to estimate his lifespan if he tries to solo his hunt. It’s really disappointing when his best calculation is a week and five tapes—trekking to and from Quincy happens to be a large factor in whether he survives unscathed or not. “He’s just been puttering around in the agency and playing that tape over and over…”

“Hi,” says MacCready, sounding bashful and disgustingly like he has a crush.

Footsteps. A wave of a tanned and calloused hand in front of his eyes. Nick blinks and looks up to see Nora’s unimpressed face. “Hey, Nick,” she says. “Hiding from Ellie now?”

“Strategizing,” he automatically corrects. “I’m strategizing.”

“To hide from Ellie?”

The sounds of casual flirting drift in the air, and Nick sits motionless on his cot, turning his stare to the floorboards. He hears a sigh, and then he feels the give of the mattress as Nora sits beside him.

“Talk to me, Nick. It’s been a bit since I’ve had profound conversation that wasn’t about dicks.” The blunt words startle a laugh from him. “C’mon. Two weeks apart, and you’re practically catatonic? What’s wrong?”

Well, now or never.

He summons the fraying parts of his courage and asks Nora for this one, too big favor. He expects a no.

He gets a fervent yes.

[3.5]

“So, you and MacCready…” Nick tries not to let his tone become curious, or even worse, _jealous_. He’d encouraged the entire partnership after all, and becoming a hypocrite on the way to Eddie Winter is not on his to-do list. “Have fun?”

“Yeah,” she answers. “Like I said, though, we made a lot of dick jokes. I think my maturity actually lowered to be on his level after the first week.”

“Good of a shot as you?” Nora hands him a dismantled typewriter and an offended glare, and she returns to the chief’s terminal to find the other tapes’ locations. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize I was talking to Annie Oakley here.”

“If you wanted to stretch the references, you could’ve said I was the Bonnie to MacCready’s Clyde,” she points out.

He refrains from responding with ‘Well, sure, but they were a bonafide couple.’

[4]

At the end of it, when Eddie Winter’s corpse is rotting where it rightly belongs underground and the two of them are out in the open air over where Jenny was murdered, Nick Valentine has his second existential crisis. He wills Nora to realize he’s less than Nick Valentine—that he’s always been a shell of an ex-cop—and he hopes to God she doesn’t abandon him.

But she’d do it cleanly, wouldn’t she?

… No. Their friendship had been built slowly, dragging itself together with scraps of idle conversation and stories of the pre-war era, the reassurance of having someone at your six, and the tacit acceptance of each other’s silly habits. If Nora cuts ties with him (and it will never be him in her place), it might look clean to her, but Nick will be left frayed and adrift. It will take him a long time to readjust in the field without knowing she would be supporting him, like when Jenny died—

Nora takes his hand, the metal skeleton one, and her lips quirk into a small but reassuring smile. “Have to been operating under Nick Valentine’s morals? Yes. But that’s because you know them to be in the right, and that makes you a good man.” At his self-deprecating snort, she grabs for his other hand and raises them both chest-high. “ _Yes_ , a man, because—” Her voice falters, like her train of thought has derailed, but it gains strength. “Nick,” she says gently. “You’ve always been you.”

If it’s within his programming, if it’s possible to transcend programming and hard code, this would be the moment Nick Valentine falls in love. Nora’s earnest words and reminders, acknowledging the disastrous moment with Kellogg’s brief influence and yet _moving past it_ , oh—they stay out in the open longer than is wise; he is stricken stock-still by her voice, and she is determined, evidently, to beat this message into his head.

His eyes inadvertently dart to see the gold wedding ring still wrapped tight around her finger, and Valentine regretfully does not blurt out, ‘God, I love you.’

[4.5]

Nick tries not to let his revelation change their dynamic. Well, much. He indulges her late-night conversations more often than is healthy, and he obliges to decrease the number of cigarettes burnt in a day so she doesn’t get second-hand smoke. Small things—things Nora wouldn’t notice unless someone pointed it out.

What he does try to influence, through the late-night conversations, is her outlook on the Commonwealth’s less-than-lucky denizens. Ghouls, being the primary concern.

It is not quite hatred she holds towards them. It’s more of an enforced indifference. Given the choice to have Hancock by her side, a man who Nick trusted more than MacCready at the time, Nora had politely refused to have him along.

Nora accepts Goodneighbor as a necessary evil, a place for all the ghouls (the ones who weren’t farming) could find sanctuary.

She attempts to explain her view on ghouls one night, in Outpost Zimonja which Nora, as General of the Minutemen, claimed for her private hideaway. Nora’s stretched out on a cot, and Nick has taken a position beside the stairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“I get that I sound like a gigantic dick,” she reflects. “I get the parallels, okay, with the ghouls being discriminated against and segregated from normal populations. It happened pre-war.”

“Yes,” says Nick. “With the Jews in World War II, and the blacks for much of the United States’ history.” He remembers the crimes and the corrupted system, and how he bought into the entire racial bias at first until Jenny. Being enlightened was not a pleasant experience.

“But are ghouls still human?”

“Define human,” he drawls. “Am I human?”

“Yes,” answers Nora immediately. “Because you feel, and you have morals. But you’re not exactly in danger of suddenly going,” she raises her hands to the ceiling and makes finger-quotes, “feral.” Triumphantly, before he can put a word in about Gen-3 synths, she adds, “And regarding the Gen-3 synths! You didn’t have all these random memories put inside your head. You’re as unique as they get, which makes you human, because all humans are unique.”

Nick shakes his head. “What about the synths who aren’t just replacements and spies for the Institute?”

He can hear her scowl. “Speculation’s unreasonable. We’re assuming all synths are replacements and spies for the Institute. You can’t just put in an unknown variable.”

“C’mon, lawyer,” he teases. “Play devil’s advocate, find something good about synths.”

“They’re physically more capable than humans,” she snarks. “They’re capable of blending in with a normal human population.” Nora then groans. “This is ridiculous and heading for a topic in my old philosophy class. Synths kill to hide, replacing loved ones or hated ones. They’re not like you, Nick, okay? You were made without purpose, yeah?”

“Ouch, I think my self-esteem took a hit.”

“Don’t deflect, I’m being serious.”

“… Let’s assume so,” he concedes.

“Then let’s assume humans are made without purpose.” Her voice grows more animated. “We’re born with choices, be it good or bad, depending where and when we’re born. And, uh, for the record, I want to acknowledge that _yeah,_ a poor kid probably can’t become the next CEO, but much of his life he can control.”

“Alright.” Nick feels like he’s losing the battle, which is just so _typical_ when an ex-cop faces against a silver-tongued lawyer.

“Okay, so synths, _from the ones I_ have been told about, are assigned a purpose. From the ones we’re concerned with, it’s to replace a human and to fulfill that human’s role. Are they still human?”

Nick pulls out a cigarette and the gold-plated lighter she gifted him a while back. “If synths aspire to be more than what they are, are they still robots or are they now human?”

The night is quiet in the face of his inquiry, and Nora breaks it with a mumbled, “Weren’t we talking about ghouls?”

His laugh could use a bit more humor, a bit less sadness. “Go to sleep, Nora. The dawn’ll be here soon.”

[5]

They’re poring over cold cases in the detective agency (Ellie, bless her, is with a friend trying out Vadim’s new drink and probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning) when Nora suddenly says across the table, “I’m going to help Paladin Danse with his problems.”

Far as Nick can tell, Paladin Danse is wholly unappreciative of outside help from anyone but humans, judging by the man’s appreciative glances towards Nora’s efficient handling of ghouls.

Because Nora’s expectantly looking at Nick for a response—a positive one, no doubt—Nick does his best to oblige. “Good luck getting rid of that superiority complex of his, kid.”

Over a case folder and hastily shuffled pieces of paper, Nora returns his stare. “I’m being serious.” The sentence is becoming a bad omen for their conversations, Nick’s coming to understand. The two of them feel a need to communicate their sobriety when all they have to do is read each other’s faces—the tension in Nora’s jaw and his wrinkles in his brow.

“Nora,” he placates, “this kind of decision tends to be a life-changing thing. The kind that leads to a few absolutes in the road of life, you know?”

Her nod is solemn, but the somberness of it is ruined by her grin. “Yes, but I think they’ve got the technology that could lead me to Shaun.” The grin falters. “I have to find a way into the Institute, Nick.”

Whatever business the Paladin needs Nora’s assistance with, Nick figures his own presence could antagonize the radical. His controversial presence notwithstanding, Nick actually has no right to advise Nora on how to search for her son after their trip into the Glowing Sea. He’s exhausted his own network and can’t offer her anything except a shoulder to lean on.

“Alright,” grumbles Nick good-naturedly. “You do have the better judgment out of the two of us.”

The smile reappears, wry and (he’s projecting, he’s _projecting_ , goddamn him) affectionate. “I got you out of that Vault, didn’t I?”

[5.25]

The first few weeks without Nora, of staying inside his agency with no Eddie Winter haunting over his shoulder, Ellie still comes to the conclusion: “Nick, do you need help?”

“If you mean to add, ‘you old bastard’, it might take out the sting,” he grouses, fingers drumming on the open case file. Kidnapping from Goodneighbor—not exactly his claimed jurisdiction, but the request seems to be written by Hancock himself. Which raises the question, how high in importance is the victim? The answer doesn’t change his resolve to find and/or retrieve the victim, it just changes whether or not he can solo the job.

If it’s a personal vendetta sweeping the man away, Nick will probably survive with only a minor injury to his trench coat. If the man’s been dragged off into slavery by an entire raider encampment, Nick will consider himself lucky to pull even the remains of the victim out.

If it’s the Institute, well, he’ll have to swing by Sanctuary or Zimonja and pick Nora up—no, wait. Nora’s no longer in his fragile web of contacts. Last he heard, she was with the champion of the Combat Zone.

Ellie’s hand pats his shoulder, feather-light and heavy with concern. “Or addictol,” she prescribes with all of her pragmatic wisdom, and she laughs at his bristling. “I know the symptoms of a withdrawal, Nick. Goodneighbor native, remember?”

Nick bats her hand away. “I’m a synth, Ellie,” he snips. “I’m all plastic and metal. I don’t get addicted.” Raising a lit cigarette in the air, Nick raises an eyebrow. “Case in point, this here is beginning of pack two.”

She shrugs away his wit. “All the same, you’ve been a little lost without Nora.”

“It _is_ easy to get used to having a partner,” Nick says crossly. “Nothing more, nothing less. I’ll get back to my old nosey self in no time, alright?”

Not surprisingly, Nick misses her point entirely, and Ellie throws her hands in the air.

[5.5]

MacCready walks into the agency alone. _There’s_ a set-up begging a resolution. It’s been a good month and half since Nick last heard from Nora, not even a cursory ‘hello’ scribbled on the backs of cigarette cartons come by. He’s getting used to it, this absence of partners. No longer does he glance across his desk to share something biting about the case, and Ellie’s finally stopped reminding him that because there’s no Nora, there’s no need to set out a cup of hot water.

“Hey,” says MacCready. He’s dressed in what looks suspiciously like Kellogg’s leather armor.

“MacCready,” responds Nick. “What brings you back to Diamond City?”

The ex-merc grimaces. “Not the beer.” He takes Nora’s seat—the _indicated_ seat across from Nick. “I, uh, actually have business. Not detective business, sorry, but more of, uh, business.”

“Cut to the point, kid.”

MacCready clasps his hands together and stares down at them. “Nora’s joined the Brotherhood of Steel, and she’s, um, taken to their sh—stuff like a fish to water.” At Nick’s half-rise to his feet, MacCready panics and adds, “I didn’t push her to join! I heard it through the gossip, okay?”

Nick glances at Ellie, who’s still at the staircase holding a clipboard and pen, and she shakes her head, prompting him to sit back down. Okay, so Nick _hasn’t_ been missing anything from his own informants. His informants have just been missing this very big piece of relevant news.

“ _What_ gossip?” The fact it remains coherent despite Nick’s grinding his teeth together should really earn him a medal.

“Minutemen,” answers MacCready. “Not the idealists, like Preston, but the ones on the fringes. The hanger-ons who’re there for the exchanged protection. There are some with connections to the Brotherhood.”

“Trustworthy?”

“I’d like to think so.”

He tries to make sense of this, of Nora joining a clearly racist organization with supremacist principles. Nick grasps at another line. “The Minutemen. Nora’s the General, has she been in talks with Preston over this?” The obvious conclusion is the exclusion of ghouls from the settlements, but Nick’s betting on Preston’s soft heart to push for their staying in.

“She’s the General of the Minutemen?” MacCready’s eyes widen. “Oh, okay, that makes a lot of sense. Anyway, ah, no. She’s been in the Brotherhood for a while now. I heard she was climbing up the ranks fast.”

_Oh, Nora, what did you find in the Brotherhood that made you want to stay_?

“Thanks,” says Nick finally, wanting to feel numb and yet feeling nothing substantial at all. “I—thanks.”

MacCready stands and heads for the door, absentmindedly replying with a ‘welcome’ and ‘bye’, when he stops. His hand’s just touching the knob, and the ex-merc seems to be wrestling with his thoughts. “Valentine,” says MacCready, “she’s a good person still.” From where Nick is frozen, sitting, MacCready is biting his lip. “She—she helped me find the cure for my son, and she’s funding my trip back home. She’s still a good person.”

“I know,” Nick replies, something inexplicably causing his hands to shake. “I’ve always known her a good judge.”

[5.90]

One breezy midnight several weeks after MacCready’s hasty departure from the Commonwealth, Sentinel Nora drops by with the intent to eliminate.

[5.95]

_“You aren’t usually the type for rash murder, kid.”_

_“Is it murder when the victim isn’t human, synth?”_

[6]

One tense midnight conversation later, Nick is left alone in his office to try and remember what it feels like to weep. Salt. He remembers the taste of salt, the awful way his eyes would stay reddened and puffy for hours—he was never much of a crybaby as cop-Nick—and the curious hollowing sense of desolation curling in his stomach.

None of those sensations miraculously come to him now to dispel Nora’s accusations. Nick certainly feels empty, but a given.

Nick stands from his chair, joints creaking and internal machinery whirring, and he goes to find all the caps he’s hoarded and squirreled away. These he puts in several empty tins; when they are full to the brim, he tapes shut the covers and then duct-tapes them to the bottom of his desk.

Then he writes a note for Ellie, covering his absence with a note about some vague cold case (of which he has many) and essentially willing the building over to her. She’s a smart girl, she’ll figure out what to do instead of tidying up after him. Hopefully she doesn’t follow in his footsteps; Nick can think of better occupations for Ellie to adopt.

Briefly, Nick considers penning down a swift tip to Piper, but discards the notion as optimistically doomed. It’s likely the muckraker would ignore it; Nora’s the hero of Diamond City, the woman who went out of her way to mix green paint to keep a superstition alive. Her being a villain? No one would believe it if Piper printed the story. Hell, it’s still hard for him to believe Nora’s readying the killshot in the Boston Public Library when he walks in tomorrow.

Poking his head outside shows it’s still a ghastly time of night, a perfect point between the witching hour and dawn when he can sneak out of the walls without being caught by Ellie or Piper. Nick pulls back inside and, well, he just stands for a moment. The overhanging lights dim and flicker in sporadic bursts, illuminating his desk and boxes of completed investigations, unfinished cases, and things he’s scavenged himself from the Commonwealth’s many ruins. The perpetually empty cigarette machine mocks him with cop-Nick’s memories and chain-smoker habits.

Home is no longer here, where Nick built himself a reputation, a network of friends, and an agency founded on nothing but goodwill and the instinct to serve the public.

_Home_ had been Nora before she was seduced by a Brotherhood of Steel lifestyle. It had been the roads and backwoods and her never-ending list of do-good deeds, dictated by the Minutemen’s settlers and other folk surviving outside the larger settlements.

“Ah,” he grouses to himself, “get on with it.”

Before he leaves, Nick tucks extra cigarette cartons in his pockets and the gifted gold-plated flip lighter. And his revolver, but its intended targets are raiders, super mutants, and the hardy Commonwealth fauna. His promise to Nora holds true.

[6.5]

The old library is stately, even though it used to be infested with super mutants. Nick peers up at it and its tinted windows, trying to discern if she’s already inside or not. _Tomorrow_ , she had said. Nothing more specific, even if Nora always chose her words carefully. Tomorrow encompasses all the minutiae; the light of day, the shadows of night, and even the break of dawn could have been Nora’s intended time.

Or, she’s giving him the choice. Already, Nick knows the forecast—early sunrise clouds dissipating by daylight, a clear blue sky giving into night’s enveloping fog. Dawn, as ever, plays the best backdrop to an ignominious death.

As he gets closer to the doors, Nick notices the broken lock dangling on a loose chain. Seeing as they’d conspiratorially looped said chain and lock around the doors’ handles early in their partnership, it’s obvious Nora had immediately headed her after the talk and probably plans to wait the entire day for him to show up.

Well, he won’t deprive her of valuable time.

Nick throws away his revolver and the rest of his ammunition, and he walks in, all steady paces and slow movements. He won’t hurt her. He _can’t_.

[6.75]

So she hurts him instead.

[7]

The first bullet is the only one necessary for his systems to start winding down; it almost surprises him, the ballistic force propelling and lodging the bullet in his chest.

He forces his body to move for the stairs, unwilling to become the undignified pile of scrap metal and plastic on the floor of a once great public service building. In painful increments, Nick manages to sit and pull out a cigarette and lighter. He lights the end and shakily places the cigarette in his mouth, servos clicking when he inhales and exhales. Old habits die hard.

Nick’s right hand removes the stick of nicotine. “I know you’re still here,” he grates out. Words come slowly, glitching at the end of certain consonants. “And—I’m… kinda glad, really.” _Okay, Valentine,_ he pictures Nora sighing, a put-upon expression plastered on her face, _talk to me_. “I told you once that if you were also a synth, we coulda kept the agency running ‘til the second Judgment Day. But—you aren’t. And if it hadn’t come… to this? Eventually, you’d die first.”

And he would have to keep on going, because the people always need a helping hand. Because the Commonwealth— _life_ —doesn’t stop for one woman, even one as accomplished as Nora, even though Nick would’ve gone crazy and tried to take up Nora’s personal quest for her son as a means of apology.

“I’m glad it’s you.” The words are laborious. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

> There really wasn't any other way Nick could've gone. *thumbs up* Suggest some POVs; I have rough outlines for Hancock and Piper's take on Sentinel Nora, and also Nora's POV.
> 
> Someone please justify the Brotherhood of Steel to me.


End file.
